


That god himself did make us

by runphoebe



Series: mpreg!verse [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, I promise, Kid Fic, M/M, Postpartum Depression, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 22:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5066341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runphoebe/pseuds/runphoebe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s weird, because having four kids is a lot like having three kids (read: way more than Stiles and Derek could ever dream of having a handle on) except when they’re at the grocery store. Over the past two months, the grocery store has become Stiles’ personal hell and he’s pretty sure he’s gonna get blacklisted one of these days. </i>
</p>
<p>Sometimes, having kids is about more than just being able to buy all of the adorable miniature clothes you can get your hands on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That god himself did make us

**Author's Note:**

> HEYOOOOo we about to get angsty up in here. (Just remember the "Eventual Happy Ending" tag. It isn't a lie.)
> 
> So, this is a lot more serious than the previous installments of Hell of a Life. I would say the problems Derek and Stiles experience are very, very typical problems for people with kids but ymmv so look at the end notes for spoilery warnings. 
> 
> They have 4 kids now. Noah is almost 6, Jacob is 4, Will is 2, and Sophie is a newborn. They're all werewolves except Will, who was also born a month and a half premature and is a lot quieter than his siblings. Sandra is a character I made up whose daughter is on a soccer team with Noah, and she's basically my favorite character in the series, so. 
> 
> I'm probably going to make this a chaptered fic sooner or later, so please do not think that this is how it's going to end, but do know that not all of their problems are resolved by the end of this installment so DO NOT read this if you want a 100% happy ending. Just know that the happy ending is coming, I pinky swear. 
> 
> The title is from Such Great Heights by the Postal Service because don't you just think that's the most Derek and Stiles song of all time? The first teeny tiny section is Derek POV and the rest is Stiles POV.

“Last one, okay?” Stiles mumbles, still all vacant and dazed from the anesthesia. Derek assumes he means the baby, which—of _course_ it’s going to be the last one. She’s perfect; she’s gorgeous. They could never make anything better than this, so there’s no reason to even try. Stiles isn’t allowed to hold her until he’s a little more alert, which made him cry when he was first waking up and asked for her, so Derek’s in charge.

She’s bundled up in a little periwinkle blanket that Noah helped Stiles pick out and her cheeks are all rosy pink and damp. Stiles lifts a hand to stroke across her face, “Sweet little girl,” he says, sing-song, “You’re a daddy’s girl already, aren’t you? My sweet baby.”

“I think she’s got you wrapped around her finger pretty well, too,” Derek murmurs, unable to tear his eyes away from her. “Do you think you’re ready to hold her?” He asks. Deaton is off in the corner, cleaning or reading charts or something that Derek does not understand, so he figures if it’s too early he can always stop them.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m awake, I’m fine,” Stiles says eagerly, reaching his arms out as well as he can. He still looks awkward and a little pained thanks to the reopened scar at the bottom of his abdomen, but his eyes are shiny bright. Derek makes sure her blanket is secure, then places her in Stiles’ outstretched arms.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, drawing her in close to his chest, “I always forget how awesome this part is.”

Derek hums in agreement. Before the sleep loss and late night diaper changes and constant wailing and weird bodily secretions start and it’s just a tiny, squirmy baby, the incredible product of what they made together; just this perfect little bundle that fits into the curve of Derek’s arm and smell like Stiles and Derek and Noah and Jacob and Will and pack. Everything good.

“You’re a little funny looking, but that’s okay. I’m a little funny looking too, and daddy still likes me,” Stiles promises, “And we love you already, and you have the three best big brothers in the world who love you, too.”

Sophie yawns and smacks her lips; Stiles coos and brushes a finger over her wrinkly little forehead. “It’s hard work coming into the world, isn’t it? Hard work for your papa, too. Think we deserve a nap, huh, baby girl?”

He’s drifting off; having a hard time keeping his eyes open and Sophie is quickly slipping into sleep on his chest. Derek wants this forever: the peace, the easy quiet and Sophie and Stiles and the way Stiles mutters sleepily when Derek takes Sophie out of his arms and pulls the blankets over his shoulders, stroking his hair until he’s fallen into a deep, restful sleep.

___

It’s weird, because having four kids is a lot like having three kids (read: way more than Stiles and Derek could ever dream of having a handle on) except when they’re at the grocery store. Over the past two months, the grocery store has become Stiles’ personal hell and he’s pretty sure he’s gonna get blacklisted one of these days.

It’s just—it’s tough having two kids who can’t really walk and two who alternately drag their feet or sprint ahead of Stiles, weaving between the aisles and in and out of other customer’s legs. It was easier when he could strap Will into the carrier on his chest, put Jacob in the cart, and let Noah walk along beside him. Now Noah and Jacob just egg each other on, feed off each other and make Stiles fucking miserable. It takes five times as long to get the shopping done and considering that he has to shop for two adults and four children of very different ages, the shopping takes long enough as it is. He doesn’t need the extra distractions.

An hour into the ordeal, Stiles has had enough. “Noah, put those cocoa puffs away right now,” he says to Noah, who’s trying to discreetly slip the box into the full cart.

“But papa,” Noah starts, face falling.

“Don’t ‘but papa’ me,” Stiles holds his finger up in warning, “I told you to pick one cereal and you picked Cheerios. You can have Cocoa Puffs next week if you still want them.”

Noah huffs and sulks, but eventually stomps over to put the cereal back on the shelf. “Thank you,” Stiles says before Noah runs down the aisle with Jacob in hot pursuit.

And seriously, Stiles hasn’t slept past four-thirty since they brought Sophie home; he keeps forgetting he’s cooking dinner until he’s staring bewildered at a pan of blackened onions while the smoke alarm goes off in the background and last week he accidentally put dishwashing liquid in with the laundry and made the whole laundry room a giant, foamy mess. He feels like crying. He’s standing in the middle of aisle twelve with cereal on one side and instant oatmeal on the other, and he’s actually going to start crying.

Then, he hears a screech from one aisle over and pushes his squeaky cart as fast as it’ll go until he turns the corner to find Jacob balanced precariously on top of Noah, trying to reach a jar of peanut butter up on a high shelf. Honest to god, his only saving grace in this moment in that it’s eight am on a Saturday and there’s hardly anyone else in the supermarket.

“Jacob Alexander Hale, you have five seconds to get off of your brother before you spend the rest of the morning in time out,” he hisses. Sophie rouses some and starts to fuss against his chest. Perfect.

“Papa!” Jacob says insistently, “Peanut butter!”

“No peanut butter, we have peanut butter at home,” Stiles reminds. He crouches on the floor, getting eye-level with Noah and Jacob. “Listen, if you two can’t behave then we can’t go to grandpa’s for dinner tonight, and you’re out of chances, okay?”

After they both stand up properly and nod, Stiles stands back up in front of the cart. “Papa,” Will says quietly, beckoning him forward.

“What’s up, buddy,” Stiles asks tiredly, bending down. Will grabs the collar of Stiles’ jacket, leans forward, and kisses him on the cheek. It nearly makes Stiles burst into tears. Instead, he collects himself, inhales deeply and kisses Will’s forehead. “Thank you, sweetie,” he says, ruffling Will’s hair.

They’re just about finished up a couple of aisles later when they run into Sandra. Jacob immediately catapults himself behind Stiles and holds on to his legs, hiding. The poor kid’s developed a pretty enormous crush on Sandra in all the months that they’ve spent sitting together on the bleachers watching Noah’s soccer practice.

“Stiles!” She says, pulling him into a brief side hug. Sophie protests the movement by knocking her feet against Stiles’ ribcage. “How are your little ones?”

Stiles never knows how to answer this question when his little ones are behaving like tiny little assholes, so he just plasters a fake smile across his face and says, “Oh, you know. Just knocking down rows of cereal boxes and trying to scale the peanut butter display. Where’s the gang?”

“At the park with David. We switch off who gets to do the grocery shopping. It’s so peaceful when you don’t have anyone underfoot,” she says with a smile.

“Man, that _is_ a good idea,” Stiles says wistfully, “We’ve been here for an hour and a half already.”

“Are you coming to the bake sale next weekend?” Sandra asks.

Stiles groans. He is, indeed, going to the bake sale. “Lacy Thompson has already sent me about ten threatening emails, so I think I have to for my own safety.” This bake sale is for Noah’s soccer team. The one Stiles missed a month or so before had been for his class to raise funds for an end of year fieldtrip.

“She just missed your famous cinnamon rolls,” Sandra says.  

Jacob, who’s been slowly peeking out from behind Stiles’ legs, finally pops all the way out and says, “Hi, Ms. Schwartz.”

She bends over, “Hello, Jacob. Are you coming to the bake sale, too?”

Jake nods shyly and hugs Stiles’ leg again, hiding his face in his pants.

“Get Derek to come, too,” she says, putting a hand on Stiles’ forearm, “It’s been ages since we saw him. We actually had to convince Serena that you had a husband. She was hell bent on bagging the hot single dad.”

“You’re kidding,” Stiles groans, but internally the words make him feel sick. Serena Wilkins’ son is relatively new to the team, but he’s been there for two or three months at least. Has Derek really not been to enough events in that time to make his presence known? “Derek will definitely be there, then.”

“Good. All right, I’ve got to go meet the family for breakfast,” she leans forward and kisses Stiles’ cheek then ruffles Jacob’s hair, “See you Monday, though.”

“Have a good weekend, Sandra,” he says. When she’s out of sight, Jacob lets out a dreamy sigh.

“I remember the feeling, kiddo,” Stiles says sympathetically.

*

They’re supposed to be at his dad’s at six-thirty for dinner, but Stiles decides that he needs some fatherly advice, so he packs everyone up and heads over around five or so. It’ll give him a few hours before Derek gets off work and meets them there to talk things over with his dad.

“Hey, kid,” his dad says, sounding surprised and happy to see him there early. Screw the fact that Stiles is twenty-nine and has four children of his own, he’ll never get tired of his dad calling him ‘kid’. After all the obligatory grandpa hugs have been doled out (twice), Stiles lets Noah, Jacob, and Will out in the backyard to burn off some energy and sets Sophie up in her Pack ‘n Play.

“So,” his dad says, grabbing them both a beer from the fridge, “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m not even going to ask how you knew,” Stiles says. He’s a little worried he’s never going to develop this whole fatherly intuition thing that his dad seems firmly in control of. “It’s just, Derek’s been really busy at work. I know you guys are looking for a new deputy, but these fifty-sixty hour weeks are killing me.”

It’s the first time Stiles has voiced this and it feels like a weight off his chest. Something he’s been carrying with him for months, and he can finally share the burden.

“Is Derek not pulling his weight at home?” His dad asks, voice reserved and carefully judgment-free.

“No, I mean, he’s great with the kids. He helps with bath time and gets up in the middle of the night and makes them breakfast, but I just—I don’t,” he tries to think of the right way to put it, “ I feel like I can’t catch my breath. I mean, I go to every doctor’s appointment and every PTA meeting and every soccer practice and bake sale and birthday party. I haven’t slept more than four and a half hours since, I don’t know, since Will was born, probably. I go to these things and I have to drag three other kids with me and it’s like they know I’m out of my depth so they’ve been acting out more and more.”

“Testing their boundaries,” his dad offers. Stiles nods and takes a breath, folding over on himself and resting his head in his hands. He feels tears pricking at the corner of his eyes and it sucks, because he doesn’t want to cry about this, but he feels like he’s been holding it back for months. His dad lays a hand between his shoulder blades and rubs his back gently, just like he did when Stiles was a child.

“I just feel like it’s never going to get any easier,” he says eventually, “we still have four years till Sophie’s in school.”

His dad blows out a breath and makes a contemplative noise. “I remember when your mom died, thinking I had no idea how to raise a kid on my own. But it got better,” he says, “we did okay.”

“We did more than okay,” Stiles says thickly, head still buried in his hands.

“As for hours at the station, he’s been pulling more than his fair share. We can cut those down. But you’ve gotta talk to him. You have to let him know how you’re feeling,” his dad says, rubbing soothingly up and down Stiles’ spine, “You’ll be okay, too. You guys will be fine.”

And if Stiles takes fifteen minutes to have a good cry and let his dad rub his back like he’s still a kid, well, no one ever brings it up again.

*

“Remember when Will liked baths?” Stiles says darkly, stripping off his wet t-shirt and khakis. Everyone’s down for the count, but not without a few casualties. Namely, all of Stiles and Derek’s clothing.

“Things were a lot easier then,” Derek agrees, “Shower or bed?”

Stiles contemplates for a moment. “Shower,” he decides, “Sophie spit up on me and I’m pretty sure there’s still some hiding somewhere.”

Derek snorts, but he looks like he could use a shower, too. He starts to tug off his shirt and head to the bathroom, but Stiles stops him with a tentative hand on his forearm.

“Hey, wait, can we—,” he starts, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. “Can we, uh, talk about something first?”

Derek gives him a worried look. “Yeah, we can,” he starts, “what’s up? Is everything okay?”

And there are about fifty thoughts swimming around in his brain right now like, _I need you or I’m going to lose my mind_ and _please help_ and _did you know that your sons knocked over twelve rotisserie chickens at the grocery store today_ , but he can’t give voice to any of them. Instead, what comes out is, “The, uh, the bake sale on Saturday—I was thinking we could go for brunch after. We can try that new place you told me about.”

“Oh, I can’t go to the bake sale,” Derek says easily, like he’s not just left Stiles feeling completely crushed.

“I thought you said you could go,” Stiles says as calmly as he can, even though he feels like he’s about to start hyperventilating.

Derek just shrugs and pulls off his pants, heading for the bathroom. “I’m drowning in paperwork,” he says, “all these applications for the new deputy position. C’mon, let’s shower. I’m exhausted.”

Silently, Stiles trails in after him.

*

There’s a tiny hand tugging on his earlobe and a voice whispering “Papa,” that draws Stiles out of his sleep. When he wrenches his eyes open, the clock is flashing a blurry _3:45_ _am_ and Noah’s staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes. No, wait, that’s Jacob. Stiles is so fucking exhausted he can’t even tell his children apart anymore.

“What’s wrong, hon?” He whispers back. Jacob shoves a thumb in his mouth, a habit that’s mostly disappeared by now, and doesn’t say anything. “Bad dream?” Stiles asks. Jacob nods and Stiles sits up a little, drawing Jacob up onto the bed with him. “Wanna sleep with papa and daddy?”

Jacob nods again, curling into Stiles’ body. It’s awfully hard to be frustrated over being woken up when the reason is so damn cute. He shifts, rolling them both over so Jacob’s sandwiched between Stiles and Derek, and Derek wakes up just a little, just enough to unconsciously wrap an arm around Jacob, hand resting on Stiles’ hip.

*

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Stiles moans to Sandra as they all stumble into the bake sale ten minutes late. Lacy Thompson is giving him the stink-eye from across the gymnasium. “Will had an issue with pants this morning.”

The issue, primarily, was that he had no interest whatsoever in actually putting pants on and Stiles had to bribe him with apple slices dipped in peanut butter. He remembers, in that vague way that you remember things that could’ve been real or could’ve been a dream, back when Noah first entered toddlerhood and he and Derek adamantly stuck to the idea of no bribes. Bribes were for weak parents who couldn’t control their children.

_Fuck that_ , Stiles thinks. Bribes are for parents who were up until three-thirty am making cinnamon rolls and just want their two-year-olds to put on a goddamn pair of khakis.

“It just started five minutes ago,” Sandra says, “you’re fine. Where’s Derek?”

“He’s, uh,” Stiles looks at his table studiously, taking three Tupperware containers of cinnamon rolls out of his reusable grocery bag, “He had to go into work. They’re short-staffed.”

Sandra narrows her eyes at him, but apparently chooses to save the discussion for a child-free moment.

“Hey, c’mere, sweetie,” Sandra says when Sophie starts to whimper in her carrier.  Stiles sighs gratefully and puts the baby in her outstretched arms. “Oh, I miss having one of these,” she says.

“Do you miss cleaning shit off the wall?” Stiles asks, “Because that’s what I was doing at five this morning.”

“Shit!” Will says, still propped on Stiles’ hip even though his brothers are running around the gym with their friends.

Stiles raises his eyebrows at Sandra, resigned to his fate as worst father ever. “Let’s not say that one in front of daddy, okay?

“Shit, papa!” Will says again, drawing attention from a few tables over.

“Apple slices, baby!” Stiles says desperately, reaching into his bag, “No more words ever and you can have all the apple slices you want!”

“I’m just gonna go back over here,” Sandra says, slowly backing away with Sophie still in her arms.

*

“Stiles?” He hears it distantly, but it’s not really enough to draw him out of his daze. He’s comfy like this, a sleepy Will cradled close against his chest and running his fingers through Will’s dark hair, and he’s not ready to be a functioning member of society again. “Stiles, are you all right?”

He shakes his head and blinks furiously a few times. Will’s doctor is standing at the doorway of the exam room, looking at him with something akin to concern.

“Sorry, sorry,” he clears his throat, “the kids were _not_ happy about that thunderstorm last night.”

Dr. Harmon smiles understandingly. He’s middle-aged, graying around his temples and his hands aren’t cold and clammy like most doctors and Will loves him.

“So, what’s the verdict, doc?” He asks, bouncing his knee up and down to wake Will gently.

“To put it simply, he’s going to need glasses before he starts daycare in the fall or he’s going to have a tough time keeping up with his classmates,” Dr. Harmon says.

“Hear that, kiddo?” Stiles asks, “You’re gonna get glasses just like daddy!” Will, still mostly dead to the world, doesn’t respond and just tucks his head further into the front of Stiles’ sweatshirt. Stiles sighs, and silently agrees. Storms sucked enough for human kids, much less three little werewolves and their grumpy werewolf father.    

“Do you give us a prescription for them, or do we have to see someone else?” Stiles asks, trying to figure when he can get Will in for another appointment between now and the start of daycare in two weeks.

“You’ll have to see a specialist,” Dr. Harmon confirms, “I left a name for you at reception and they can set up an appointment if you’d like.”

Stiles thanks him and stands, shifting Will so he can wrap his legs around Stiles’ middle and his arms around his neck. He falls back asleep in seconds, drooling on Stiles’ shoulder.

*

Stiles feels the thunder start to roll in again early that evening when he’s cleaning up dinner. By nine-thirty, three little bodies have wormed their way out of their own beds and into Stiles and Derek’s. Will doesn’t really get scared of the noise the way his brothers do since he doesn’t have their hearing, but he doesn’t like being left out so he’s wedged himself in on Stiles’ right side. Noah’s cuddled up on his left and Jacob’s clinging to Derek, face buried in Derek’s side. Sophie’s in her co-sleeper next to Derek, sleeping soundly after a solid hour and a half of ear-shattering wails.

Stiles has been singing softly to them for the past forty-five minutes, nonsense lyrics and a half-formed melody that he’s probably heard somewhere before, maybe the theme song for a tv show or something his mom used to sing. They’ve all dropped off by now except Noah, who’s better at forcing himself to stay awake since he’s older. 

Stiles strokes his hair softly, rubbing the delicate skin under his ear with a gentle thumb.

“Daddy,” he whines when a long, low roll of thunder rumbles across the sky.

“I know, kiddo,” Derek says sympathetically, rolling over onto his side without displacing Jacob so he can put a big, comforting hand on Noah’s chest.

As exhausted as Stiles is, as little sleep as he’s gotten in the past two and a half months (or six years), he’s inexplicably grateful for this moment. It makes him think of when Noah was little and Jacob barely a month old, the weeks Noah spent sleeping in Stiles and Derek’s bed, unable to fall asleep without Stiles humming softly to him and Derek’s fingers shifting through his hair. Stiles doesn’t have a lot of time to be nostalgic anymore so whenever it happens, it hits him like a freight train.

Noah shifts against him, eyes wide and alert in the sliver of moonlight peeking through the curtains.

“When I was a boy,” Derek starts, “I used to keep my mom and dad up all night when it stormed.”

Something in Stiles’ chest expands in a near painful way and he has to clutch Noah tighter to him.

“Really?” Noah asks, disbelieving. Daddy is not supposed to be afraid of storms. Daddy’s supposed to protect everyone from them.

“Yup, and he still did it when we started dating,” Stiles contributes, “made me read him bedtime stories.”

Derek briefly lifts his hand off Noah’s chest to flick Stiles’ ear. Noah giggles. For the first time since Sophie was born, Stiles feels completely, perfectly at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> HAHahahaha /i hate myself
> 
> [tumblr](http://runphoebe.tumblr.com) where I mostly talk about tyler hoechlin and hockey boys atm. Also where I'm most likely to post Hell of a Life status updates/where to go if you want to yell at me about why i hate happiness. 
> 
> Spoilery Warnings: Stiles (unbeknownst to Derek) is feeling very overwhelmed by his children and is most certainly experiencing symptoms of postpartum depression, even if it is not called that in the fic. Occasionally, he has moments where he resents the kids/Derek and feels like he can't handle their caretaking. He and Derek largely do not resolve these problems by the end of this installment, though they will shortly hereafter.


End file.
